This little jest put an end to their strained emotion.  All three looked at one another and laughed merrily.  Ginevra pressed Luigi’s hand in a strong clasp, with a simplicity of action worthy of the customs of her native land.

“Ah ca, my dear children,” resumed Servin, “you think that all will go right now, but you are much mistaken.”

The lovers looked at him in astonishment.

“Don’t be anxious.  I’m the only one that your romance will harm.  But the fact is, Madame Servin is a little straitlaced; and I don’t really see how we are to settle it with her.”

“Heavens! and I forgot to tell you,” exclaimed Ginevra, “that Madame Roguin and Laure’s mother are coming here to-morrow to—­”

“I understand,” said the painter.

“But you can easily justify yourself,” continued the girl, with a proud movement of her head.  “Monsieur Luigi,” she added, turning to him with an arch look, “will no longer object to entering the royal service.  Well, then,” after receiving a smile from the young man, “to-morrow morning I will send a petition to one of the most influential persons at the ministry of War,—­a man who will refuse nothing to the daughter of the Baron di Piombo.  We shall obtain a ‘tacit’ pardon for Captain Luigi, for, of course, they will not allow him the rank of major.  And then,” she added, addressing Servin, “you can confound the mothers of my charitable companions by telling them the truth.”

“You are an angel!” cried Servin.

While this scene was passing at the studio the father and mother of Ginevra were becoming impatient at her non-return.

“It is six o’clock, and Ginevra not yet home!” cried Bartolomeo.

“She was never so late before,” said his wife.

The two old people looked at each other with an anxiety that was not usual with them.  Too anxious to remain in one place, Bartolomeo rose and walked about the salon with an active step for a man who was over seventy-seven years of age.  Thanks to his robust constitution, he had changed but little since the day of his arrival in Paris, and, despite his tall figure, he walked erect.  His hair, now white and sparse, left uncovered a broad and protuberant skull, which gave a strong idea of his character and firmness.  His face, seamed with deep wrinkles, had taken, with age, a nobler expression, preserving the pallid tones which inspire veneration.  The ardor of passions still lived in the fire of his eyes, while the eyebrows, which were not wholly whitened, retained their terrible mobility.  The aspect of the head was stern, but it conveyed the impression that Piombo had a right to be so.  His kindness, his gentleness were known only to his wife and daughter.  In his functions, or in presence of strangers, he never laid aside the majesty that time had impressed upon his person; and the habit of frowning with his heavy eyebrows, contracting the wrinkles of his face, and giving to his eyes a Napoleonic fixity, made his manner of accosting others icy.